Martin Jack

Incendiary

Any tongue needs a saviour.
You can’t escape the flash
even that shatters the architecture
of words, sculpts a savage city
flaking in the morning
aftermath of an incendiary device.

Gargoyles speak of it
in their masques. Words scratched
bloodily by an angry couple add
to their number, a hostile takeover
of spree killings immortalised
in stone that breeds new possession
an outbreak of sleep walkers
on the wrong side of the bed.

Soon you hear the pitter
patter of tiny daggers, unsheathed
as we stab with amplified thought
waves that leave a pinprick
on our souls brushed
with the ferocity of locust wings;
flying with the biting swarm
until famine intrudes into our face-
to-face coffee breaks where just
the espresso tastes warm and filling
and conversation is sandpaper friction
bantered till it hurts.

Do you dare to play auteur
with thoughts that croak crawl?
Can you tame them with the whip
of a clapper board scripting chaos
into a starring role where even
depression gets the girl, wooing
her with scissors and knives.

Mister, there will not be a sequel.
I’ll go undercover on release
no electronic capture but a fog
exchanged for my costume melted
into the cutting room floor.
While I live on as gas embers
one step ahead of the studio system
that would smother its audience
with your razzle dazzle
of my swimming with sharks,
suicides pretending a smile.